by Mary Paynter Sherwin
This is one of
attempts. This could be the first.
Oncoming headlights blinding, glaring. Lane lines squinted. Do not brake. A known road, with
single direction. Down. There are road signs. It is about to rain. If you rolled down the windows, you
could hear church bells, St. John of the Cross, moonlit by some
errant holy thing every Thursday evening, after 8pm. You believe in the sacred.
How do you determine tolerance to mildew, exactly?
There were perhaps, or your mind said so. Then there were brothers and a sister and
accusations. Gunshots, pinwheels, cotton candy, and a waltz in a hallway. You cannot see your
mouth has been sewn shut. There was a way of telling them that a third tour would drive
him crazy, that his children would suffer and his wife would leave, but the words in the
letter, typing them all out with a dictionary on your desk, they kept changing. Bead curtains made
of rosaries, an uncle’s television sets waiting beyond.
F er i l et. go pi a ing
po dr . T int , to any he
sem h h y os w .
Miles Davis inside your right ear. They want you in silk.
At first, it was dirt. Then fishing. The beach was full of children and how they cried at the
creature you hooked. A bird fish, a peacock haddock, feathers on fins. The cry of a torn
esophagus, and how quickly it swam away when you threw it back. And how
quickly you caught it again with the same bait. How quickly you threw it back again and again.
The wanting. Or need.
lit on fire for torches, the artificial orange stench hanging, back of throat. There is
a hall-way for this, a man comes wearing a jumpsuit, and there is a box of powder in his hand.
It’s algebra and biology all over again. Do you approach a wolf with a knife or a fork?
Past the kitchen, each box a treasure. Priceless, and no one had been inside for thirty years.
Mistook sandwiches for air filters, and again, that blasted music. You really should have been
there by now. Wristwatch, free circle magnets, business cards, stationery box,
coral earring, box of waterproof matches, and five black ballpoint pens. Takes you to a funeral or a locksmith; the
car is not going to be fast enough.
RSS
Twitter
Facebook
Flickr
YouTube
Vimeo
IMDb
